


What Possesses, What Bleeds

by cassandra_leeds (The_Circadian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel/Dean Winchester UST, Dark, Hurt No Comfort, Intoxication, Lucifer in Alternate Vessels, M/M, Manhandling, Vessel Consent Issues, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5775805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circadian/pseuds/cassandra_leeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set somewhere between 5x02 and 5x03. Sam and Dean have split, leaving Dean and Castiel to contemplate what moves to take next, while Lucifer is looking for a way in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Possesses, What Bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [livejournal](http://cassandra-leeds.livejournal.com/21142.html) years ago.
> 
> This story was written by request for my friend, [Matt.](http://dreamsareweapons.tumblr.com/) Podfic of this story, read by him, can be found [here.](http://www.mediafire.com/download/13lgg1ixizhdqbs/What+Possesses%2C+What+Bleeds.mp3)

  


Castiel was told by a sister once that he had something of her memory of the Alps about him, forests and cold air. Another, his brother, told him he was the sound of a resounding snap from a fire burning strong in the hearth in a great celestial hall. They had touched hands, each finger finding its equal on the other, then touched their foreheads together reverently, smiling as they traded admiring reflections of the other, sang softly of their affection for each other, and finally parted ways.

Angels generally burn cold, though it is not experienced quite like a temperature - each angel’s energy flows different, and, like human scent, each is unique and experienced almost like a flavor transmitted just from proximity. The angels take pleasure in this. Variety and sharing are encouraged. And though sex is an act angels aren’t given the ability to do, at least nothing quite like what humans are given the gift of, there were moments when Castiel remembers something passing between him and his brothers and sisters in moments of contemplation over each other, loving moments. They would sense and place these aspects of each other and delight in the outcome.

Lucifer burns hot and, to Castiel, is a dark, huge space with no exit, no way out, no way to light. He’s nails on a chalkboard and terror filled nights where all you can do is pray for sun. And anger – so much anger you feel like you’ve been knocked down by it even if he doesn’t touch you. But over all of this and what makes Lucifer a being Castiel can’t deal with, can’t stand being near, is that Lucifer feels _good_. He’s raw power barely contained, atomic destruction bound by tissue thin temper. And yet that ability to smother good and evil alike rides along with a fluid and sure step; the grace of a thousand angels was always his and has never faded. This terrible magnificence has been enough to make men fall to their knees in something like rapture; it’s enough to send many to do great evil, convinced that they had spoken to God.

Dean runs hot too, in temperature and emotion. Though the allure he holds is so much more complex and elusive, it sometimes leaves Castiel breathless. Dean walks through bars, past pool tables and loud crowds, and Castiel can see him scope it all out, watches familiar flares inside him set off when he sees a pretty girl glancing back at him. Dean understands how to work people and he takes pleasure in it as much as he takes pleasure in his skill with a gun or the ability to plan out an attack. He knows his strengths, but a quick once over is always a reminder, a reassurance. Despite this flirtation he walks on. Not tonight. Castiel can feel Dean’s mood, and riding a warm body isn’t the distraction Dean needs right now. He’s set on quicker fixes.

Castiel watches him warm with each beer he drinks, takes note of the flush on his cheeks after the fourth. Dean looks over and absent mindedly straightens the shoulder of Castiel’s trench.

“You look good tonight,” he says. Castiel smiles. This is the correct response, he’s almost completely sure – it’s polite, and, more importantly, the best way to brush the comment off. Because he knows Dean is lonely tonight for Sam. He can sense the emptiness lurking there, a lost limb. A lost sense of purpose. And Castiel knows that Dean enjoys his company and maybe a friend is what will get him through tonight without him breaking into violence. But as Castiel looks back over, Dean’s expression has shifted and whatever bemused fleeting feeling that was there is gone. Dean stares at his bottle and is somewhere else. Castiel would look in, but he’s learned recently from Dean that such an act is rude and should be avoided unless in an emergency.

With his brothers and sisters in heaven, this would have been a moment when he would have reached out to share what he found beautiful about them. _Dean, you are the sun at precisely that moment of evening when it’s light turns the ocean into a vast and breathing iron expanse. The heat is gone from the shore, but the sky is the warmest color you’ve ever seen. Dean, you are the sound of a lonely lark in the early morning in a mountain country in Pennsylvania, where the air smells like grass and oak. You are the shine on the chrome of your Impala on a winter morning. You are a supernova replaying over and over in my mind._ But none of these things are all he is to him. It’s not nearly enough. And Castiel knows, deep down, Dean doesn’t want to hear it. He knows because he hears Dean shout things inside himself even when Castiel is trying not to hear. _Just go. Just. Don’t you dare act like you care._ Overlapping: _Please don’t leave, too._

Dean plays with the ring on his finger as he waits for his fifth beer. He mumbles to Castiel, “What do you think he’s doing?”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say, because if he thought it would help, he could know the answer in an instant. He also knows that Dean probably doesn’t really want to know, because, for better or worse, Sam is living his life without Dean and nothing Castiel can say will improve that truth. “I don’t know,” he answers finally.

“Fucking kid, bet he’s sitting home alone,” he laughs. The smile is a flash and gone. He shakes his head. “He’s got nobody. We’ve got nobody anymore. Whole universe’s against us – who’s gonna leave first, who’s going to say ‘yes’ first.” He wipes a hand over his face, massages a spot by his eye. “Sometimes, Cas, I don’t know, it feels like… what’s the point of fighting?”

Castiel examines Dean and says quietly, heavily, “You know the answer to that.”

Dean nods again, places his hand, strong fingers splayed, on the bar counter. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” takes a moment and then fishes out his wallet and fumbles through the bills, leaves them folded by the bottle as he stands. He zips up his jacket and Castiel sees Dean’s trying to hide that he’s waiting for him, so he follows.

A few minutes later, Dean is pulling Castiel into his hotel room and pressing Castiel’s dry mouth to his own.

If Castiel had seen this coming – he should have seen this coming – did he see this coming? He would have done something, he could have prepared himself to say no. But he never expected this from anyone, and it’s not what he thought it would be. Soft heat, wet tongue mapping a line under his upper lip and then sucking with such urgency he can’t seem to do anything but give back whatever is being asked for here. He gives and feels something rising up in him, hears it – a sound he never knew he could make, soft and needy. Dean lets go of the kiss for a moment and sways into Castiel, clutches to him.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into him and Castiel smells the alcohol all over Dean, can still taste it on his own tongue from the kiss. But Dean is still leaning hot against Castiel despite the apology, hard hot press of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” then quieter, trembling words, “Are you in trouble for that?” Dean backs away as the last thought comes out of his mouth, the fear and guilt there barely concealed.

Castiel doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just stares down at the floor like the next appropriate move will come to him if he waits for it.

“I drank too much.” Dean keeps stepping back. “I…”

Castiel doesn’t stay to hear the rest.

 

Midnight finds Castiel looking over Chicago. Wind whips around him and he can feel the pull in his Grace telling him to do the right things: He should step off this building and fall into invisible flight. He should take the amulet in hand and just keep searching for God until he can’t anymore, until he’s killed. He should use their one chance, chase it instead of chasing this thought in his head down the road it seems so willing to go, where he’s still in that room with Dean, Dean’s fingers digging into his coat and holding fast.

He could be there in moments. He could be there now.

Castiel purses his lips, looks out at the buildings surrounding, sides checkered with windows lit and dark, knows how many souls in this world count on a fools hope that anything will work out, that most don’t even know how close they are to mayhem and death. There is so little hope. It hits Castiel like a weight, the place between his ribs suddenly painfully heavy. He breathes in and out slowly. He’s seen Dean do this in times of panic, maybe the vessel remembers. Surely the pain is just an error. Vessels are delicate despite what they’re put through.

He feels him before he sees him, a chilling rush that has nothing to do with the wind. He turns and Lucifer is leaning against the wall across the roof from him, arms folded.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel asks, nearly accusatory.

Lucifer shrugs, lifts himself away from the wall in a near graceful push and steps closer.

“What, you’re the only one who can enjoy the view?”

Castiel says nothing, feels something like hate burning in his heart, but can’t take his eyes off of him either. Lucifer sighs as he steps next to him, leans over the railing. “You know,” Lucifer says, all easy conversation and curiosity, “You were young when I had to leave, but I always wondered about you.”

Castiel feels himself swallow at this and ignores the reflex as much as he can.

“You were beautiful even then. You… had a way you held yourself, I can’t explain it. Like you always knew you were capable of great things, but you were humble about it. Smart too. I saw you think over strategies and analyze everything you were told to do. You never said a word while you questioned it all.”

Castiel’s eyes go wide, meeting Lucifer’s gaze with part horror, part surprise.

“What? It was admirable. Don’t tell me you’re not even a little proud to have a mind of your own.”

Castiel locks his jaw, tries to keep his voice as calm as possible. “It has cost me more than I ever expected.”

“I know.” Lucifer is deep in a memory for a moment then looks over to him and there is genuine sadness in his tone when he says, “I miss my brothers, my sisters.”

Castiel is struck by the sentiment, hadn’t been expecting this unwelcome familiarity, or the need for comfort it suddenly violently inspires. When he finally finds his voice again, he repeats, “Why are you here?”

Lucifer looks down and then he’s pacing over to Castiel, closer. “Would you believe me if I told you I’d like to help you find God?”

Castiel smiles, but there is no humor in it. “Why would I believe that from you?”

Lucifer tips his head slightly in casual defeat. “Well, it was worth a try.” He’s so close Castiel can smell the steam rising off of him from hellfire, can sense that never ending hole of hate sucking him down into nothingness. “You’d believe me if I said I had a new plan though, wouldn’t you?”

Castiel eyes him carefully, feels truth there. “What plan?”

“Oh, now, brother,” he chastises, patting Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel feels like he’s been struck, “wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

He turns and walks toward the exit door to the stairs and turns slightly, says over his shoulder as he walks, “He’s ready, Castiel. It’s over. Even now, he’s calling me. He’s ready to say yes. Tonight.”

Castiel goes cold. “Sam.”

“Goodnight, brother.”

 

Castiel has never been so angry at himself for the brands he made on the brothers’ ribs as he is in this moment. Sam isn’t answering his phone and Castiel has no idea where he is. He flies, reaching out and trying in a last hope to find the feathery sense of a dream, Sam’s dream.

It’s most definitely a dream, the dynamics of the space warp and shift, but Sam’s still in his motel room, jumping out of the motel bed at the sound of Castiel calling out from the dark to him. He’s shaken and when Sam turns on the light, he sees just how bad a state Castiel is in. Castiel’s words come out in a rush, asking, pleading for the truth, demanding to know.

“No, Cas, I’m fine. What the hell is going on?”

“Lucifer, he said you were calling to him.”

Sam cocks his head to the side, narrows his eyebrows. “Why the hell would I do that?”

Sam is practically holding Castiel up by his shoulders, Castiel shaking as he grips onto Sam’s forearms and protests.

“Castiel, I’m not. Ever.”

“He said. He said…” And then it dawns on Castiel with terrifying certainty just how wrong he was, how Lucifer never said _who_ was calling him and now it’s too late. It’s too late. He feels it. “No…”

He’s never flown so fast.

 

The hotel is empty. The whole hotel. No cars. No guests. The check in counter is empty, dial tone from the dropped receptionist’s phone dully humming through the parking lot.

The whole block is devoid of anything alive.

Castiel pushes away the cold sensation that runs through him, tries to focus, centers himself, closes his eyes, and feels out the area for Dean. Even with the brandings, Castiel can still just barely sense him, or rather where he’s been, a lingering warmth. Running over the whole block with his mind – nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing alive above ground or below. It’s a scarily clean feeling.

And then suddenly, there he is. Castiel feels Dean close, a bittersweet tang in the air, weaving out from the hotel. It’s hard to place, though. It’s weak. Castiel walks forward to follow the trail, trying his best to not call out.

It’s hard to trace but Castiel keeps chasing it, knows Dean’s here, tries to not think because there is nothing he can do with the reality he hopes to God isn’t waiting for him at the end of this path. Dean is here somewhere, he thinks, and that is enough. He’s close, he’s very close now, and then the scent is gone as if a wind took it.

Castiel looks up and finally focuses on where he’s wandered to. It’s a dining hall, an entertainment room of this hotel. It’s dark, but light from the night world outside illuminates the room just barely through thin gauzy curtains. The wallpaper is metallic, gold and gaudy, in this light. Round empty tables are pushed to the sides of the room in a halfhearted attempt at clean up. More are folded closed and propped against the walls next to folding chairs. Wedding receptions and graduation parties have been held in this room, full of light and warmth and laughter and intoxication. Now cold and dark, it feels like a catacomb, some place you only go when you have the courage or are mad enough with grief not to fear. Castiel is both in this moment.

“Pretty, pretty Castiel.”

Castiel turns and Dean is leaning against one of the closer tables, finger tracing its edge. Castiel feels a faint flicker of hope, but it’s smothered with ice as soon as Dean looks up and meets his eyes. What he sees there is anciently familiar. It’s family. It’s unending rage. It’s cruelty that knows no limit.

This isn’t Dean anymore.

“No wonder he fell for you the way he did. Took him a few beers to make the move, sure, but, if you knew… Did you know?”

Castiel can’t speak, can’t even find words.

“He’s not so bad himself,” he says, considering, looking over himself. “I was getting used to the prospect of Sam – taller, younger. Nice set of muscles on that kid too.” He flexes his hands. “But this is _very_ nice. Surprisingly so.”

Castiel can’t say the name ‘Dean’ or ‘Lucifer.’ Can’t bear it. He swallows down the sick feeling rising in his throat, how weak he feels. He’s lost. He’s lost everything.

“Don’t be like that, Castiel,” Lucifer says, words sliding warm from Dean’s mouth as he nears him. “You knew this was coming. You knew I’d win.”

Castiel doesn’t back away, but wants to desperately. He wishes he had searched harder. He wished God had shown Himself, would fix this, would listen, please, listen. Because this isn’t fair. It’s not fair that after all of this, after all they’ve lost that they have to lose one another. That he has to lose the one human being who has ever made him feel quite the way he does now. Something in his core is breaking as he watches Lucifer move this body, as he watches those eyes that hours ago would have sized up Castiel’s state before helping in whatever way he could, that mouth that would curl up in a smile that held something sad and secretive. Now the smirk in Dean’s eyes is one of pity, but pity that sees an angle, and Castiel knows it well. The way Lucifer moves into his space and watches him, hums to himself with concern, is a tool and Castiel understands this. His mind has put this tactic of Lucifer’s together as fact and yet this show of compassion, even if false and filled with veiled intent, makes Castiel quiver with emptiness and longing for something he knows deep down he’ll never get back. Dean. His brothers and sisters. Heaven. Something like home. And Dean had been his home, the closest thing he thought he’d ever have to it again. He could have had it. He could have had it for at least a little while longer if he’d stayed with Dean. He could have saved them both if he hadn’t panicked, if he had just let it happen. If he had just let them love one another for a little while before the world fell down around them.

“Castiel.” Lucifer’s voice is close, and if Castiel lets himself for a moment he can hear it as Dean’s and not Lucifer’s. Dean _is_ in there somewhere. Somewhere in there Dean is trapped and alone and Castiel hopes Dean doesn’t have to see this too, because Castiel is crying.

There is a hand on his shoulder, burning hot, and Castiel hisses in a gasp. “Castiel, don’t.”

“Don’t touch me,” Castiel grits out, shaking him off, looking briefly up.

The smile is a deep line in the dark. “You can’t be serious.”

Castiel glares.

Lucifer closes in and touches Castiel’s cheek with the back of his finger. Castiel stares into green eyes, now vortexes to unknown horrible places, a mind filled with near unknowable hatred and intelligence. He shudders as much from the view as the contact.

“You mean to tell me you’re going to _deny_ this?” Lucifer grabs the lapels of Castiel’s trenchcoat and pulls Castiel closer still. “Deny this to _me_?”

Castiel feels like the air has been knocked out of him.

“Castiel, you are the easiest angel to read I’ve ever known. You try, I’ll give you that. But did you think I wouldn’t see the weakness you’ve nursed in yourself because of this man. This ridiculous man.”

“Lucifer—“

“You have _feelings_ for him,” he spits and then laughs. “You _love_ him.”

Castiel feels the last of him break open at this. Fury blasts through him in a few barely managed ragged breaths then finds words before his mind can catch up.

“You don’t even remember what love feels like.”

When Castiel can see again he registers the hit, a smack to the face, cheek still feeling strangely numb, realizes Lucifer is dragging him stumbling across the room. He fights back but finds himself in a haze of pain almost immediately. Hit after hit and then more movement as he’s guided, punch drunk, farther along. His whole face aches and burns.

“I can remember, you worthless, spineless excuse for a Messenger of God,” Lucifer growls. “And you know what’s even better? I get to taste it all over again in a body, except this time in the perverted variation of it Dean possessed, especially for you.”

Castiel groans, feels the hard edge of the table against his thighs as he falls back against it, Lucifer still holding him upright by his coat.

“He used to beat himself up about it. He’d feel sick every time he touched himself thinking of you. He wanted you so badly, Castiel. He wanted this,” Lucifer says, grabbing Castiel’s groin in one possessive handful. Castiel sucks in his breath. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt, ever let himself feel. “He wanted to push right into that suit of yours and watch Castiel, the untouchable, break apart under him. He’d wanted to be your first. He’d wanted it so badly, Castiel, you can’t even imagine.” But Castiel can, he can, if it felt like this, as Lucifer works him through thin material, god, if it felt like this... Lucifer reaches into Dean’s pants and Castiel watches, lips parted, as Lucifer pulls out Dean’s cock. It’s hard in Lucifer’s grip as he strokes over the length of it, then looks to the side as if distracted. “Oh, yes. He says he wanted more than sex.” Castiel’s eyes go wide as Lucifer smiles. “Oh, he’s here,” Lucifer says cruelly. “I couldn’t let him miss this.”

Castiel shakes his head and pushes up to get away and Lucifer returns with a hard shove back down. “Come on, we’re past the denial now.” Lucifer has his fingers through the parting in his shirtfront and, before Castiel can react, is ripping the shirt open, tug after tug. Cold air washes over him. “You’ve wanted this, and now you’re getting it.” Castiel gasps as Dean’s hands run up the length of his torso. Dean’s hands, Lucifer’s will. And as Lucifer caresses down to his waistband, he can’t seem to bring his hands up to fight away. “You feel that, Castiel?” Lucifer’s opened his belt, flicking the leather to either side, somehow already has his hand through his fly and is reaching in. “That’s want. And it’s yours.”

“Lucifer, please—“ Dean’s smell is all around him, mixed with the smell of ash and charred bone, licks of sulfur. Lucifer’s breath smells like earth, not like whiskey. But even so it’s all strangely close to Dean, because these hands have touched him before in passing, held him as he’s fallen, pulled him up off the ground. These clothes that smell like smoke and gunpowder, faintly stained with blood and gun oil, have brushed by him over and over. These eyes that used to smile at him, or ask silently, are now just looking for what they can take. This mouth is twisted into a mocking line Castiel has never seen on Dean before.

Lucifer pulls Castiel out of his boxers, hums his approval at what he’s found.

“‘ _Cas_ ,’” Lucifer breathes, and it’s too close to the Dean he’s lost, “He made you smaller with that name. A familiar. ‘ _Cas_.’ Muttered it to himself when he was alone, dark thoughts in his head. ‘ _Cas_.’”

Castiel shudders, thrusts up into Lucifer’s grip, because it’s good. It’s so wrong, but it’s _good_.

“But you like being his. You lived for it,” Lucifer says, pumps his fist over Castiel until Castiel spasms and cries. “Who knew the one chosen to save Dean Winchester would fall so low?” he sneers.

Castiel bites his lip, his body rushing towards some horrific unknown pinnacle, the build terrifying and unrelenting as Lucifer pumps his cock faster and faster, takes his other hand and in one near superhuman move, tears Castiel’s trousers and boxers from fly to ass.

“I wondered why you didn’t give him this,” he says and presses his fingers over Castiel’s hole. Castiel squirms back. The intimacy of it, the brutality of it, it’s too much, and it hurts. “Why you saved it.”

Castiel grits out a strangled sound as Lucifer lines himself up with Castiel, presses the head of his cock to him and pushes in without warning, filling and tearing Castiel open in one slow strong push, knocking the scream out of him with his breath.

There’s a small laugh in the back of Lucifer’s throat as he closes his eyes and buries himself deep. “Mine now.”

  



End file.
